


Unholy

by ashthefab



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Forgive Me, M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 17:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11582412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashthefab/pseuds/ashthefab
Summary: “You tell me you’re not one of the angels.” His voice was lilting, taunting him. “Prove it.”(Set during Reichenbach Fall)





	Unholy

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow, I only get inspired to write Sheriarty in the middle of the night.  
> Enjoy :)

“You tell me you’re not one of the angels.” His voice was lilting, taunting him. “Prove it.”  
“What do you want me to do?” Sherlock scoffed, crossing his arms. “Shoot someone? Commit a crime that would give me no satisfaction? I don’t do things just because people ask me to; there must be a reason if I am to get involved.”  
“But that’s exactly the thing, Sherly.” He widened his eyes, imitating Sherlock. “Why do it if it doesn’t give me satisfaction? The answer’s staring you right in the face, STUPID. Do something that _does_ give you satisfaction. I don’t go around killing people just because it gets me money; how shallow do you think I am?” He shook his head, tutting at the other man. “No, I do it because I _like_ it. Killing someone is a wonderful thing. You see, you get such a _rush_ doing it. Power over life is intoxicating. The ability to decide who gets to live and who gets to… well, you get the idea.” He drew a hand slowly across his throat, a sadistic smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “The point is, what do you do that separates you from them that you _enjoy_?” Sherlock stood still as the other picked up his wrist, fingers pressing tightly enough into his pulse point to leave a bruise. “What gets your blood pumping?”  
_What got his blood pumping?_  
It was an interesting question. There was a whole list of what ‘normal people’ would consider the wrong side of the road - drugs, fraternising with the homeless, enjoying a murder scene, literally anything his brother disapproved of… But none of those were what he _enjoyed_ , what he _loved_ to do.  
“Fine. You want to know what gets my blood pumping?” He stepped forward and the grin on his adversary’s face widened. “You want to know my unholy desire? It’s you.”  
“Me?” The other raised an eyebrow. “My, my. I never pegged you as the type, Sherly.”  
“Yes, you,” Sherlock snapped. “You, James Moriarty, supercriminal. What do you want me to say?”  
“Fine; I’ll say it for you.” Moriarty stepped back, beginning a slow pace across the rooftop. “Poor little Sherly. He had a _boring_ life with _boring_ crimes to solve and _boring_ little friends all trying to make him normal. Then, along comes a new crime! This one, this one is interesting because it was done by someone smart - someone that understood him for who he truly was, _what_ he truly was. Can you guess who this new criminal is?”  
“You.” Sherlock’s voice was flat, controlled.  
“Exactly. Me. I understand you, even if you don’t want to admit it.” He stopped, whirling to face the detective. “You say you’re on the side of the angels, but you aren’t, not when you’re so much like me. You still haven’t proven that, by the way.”  
“You want me to prove it? I’ll prove it.” With those words, Sherlock stepped up to the other, roughly grabbing his shoulders and pressing his lips against Moriarty’s. The criminal laughed into his kiss and his hand rose to grasp Sherlock’s throat, taking control of the motions. It was burning, full of hate, yet full of desire. _Desire for what?_ Sherlock hadn’t known before. _To prove himself? To spite Mycroft?_ No; he knew now. _It made him feel alive._ Finally, Moriarty stepped away, releasing the detective from his hold.  
“Good job.” His hand snuck inside his peacoat, closing around a cold handle. “But I have to admit something. You see, as much as I enjoyed you proving me wrong, there still is one thing I love more than being right, and that is seeing people suffer.” He cocked his head, studying Sherlock. Reaching up, he took the other’s chin in his hand. “Someone as pretty as you only looks prettier when there is true suffering in their eyes. So, as I’m sure you can guess, I’m afraid this little _powwow_ has to end.” His hand withdrew from his coat clutching a steel gun, which he raised to his own mouth. “Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.”


End file.
